


Star Crossed Colours

by Embergree



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embergree/pseuds/Embergree
Summary: Having just moved to a new town, Maedhros and his siblings attend the Beleriand Learning Campus where he meets Fingon, whom Maedhros cannot seem to stay away from.A High School AU with various First Age characters, told from the alternating perspectives of Maedhros and Fingon.
Relationships: Aredhel/Eöl (Tolkien), Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	1. The House of Fëanor

Red was Maedhros’ favourite colour.

Not just because his long auburn hair would often glow a fiery red when it caught the sunlight, but because red was a colour of passion, of joy, and of love. Yes, most people thought it was evil just because red was the colour of blood, but those people would often forget that it was blood that gave life.

At least, that was the argument Maedhros made to Maglor.

“Maedhros,” Maglor said, rubbing his forehead in exasperation, “we’re not painting the walls red.”

“Well, we’re not having them blue,” Maedhros shot back. Maglor had insisted on having blue walls back in their old bedroom and Maedhros had no intention giving it an encore.

“Red is the colour of babies, blue is the pigment of art, music and grace.”

“Blue is boring.”

“You’re boring.”

Behind his back, Maedhros flexed his hand harshly. Growing up as the eldest of seven sons had made Maedhros accustomed to endless bickering and bargaining – in fact, he had almost developed a talent for negotiating. The key, Maedhros had found, was to always appeal to his brothers’ pride and make them believe that was _he_ wanted was in _they_ wanted.

“You’re always saying that it’s important for art and music to evolve,” Maedhros said carefully, “but our last bedroom was also painted blue.” Maglor frowned and Maedhros tried not to grin. It was working. “Instead of our walls remaining in a state of limbo, we allow them to change just as surely as your art will.”

His brother was considering it and just as Maedhros was about to ring the bell, Maglor gave a half-hearted chuckle. “That bullshit may work on Amrod and Amras but try and remember I’ve been alive nearly as long as you have. You may be a fine politician in the house of Fëanor, but we’re in the room of Maglor.” He fixed Maedhros with a resolute stare. “Blue.”

Maedhros gritted his teeth. Plan B it was. “Two walls red, the others blue.”

Then Maglor really did laugh and held up his hands. “Fine.”

Maglor may have been the most reasonable of his brothers, but the dark-haired singer still drove a hard bargain. Maedhros loved all his family but, mostly due to their age proximity, it was Maglor to whom he was closest with.

It was why the two had decided to continue sharing a bedroom in their new house. Maedhros had only been slightly annoyed when his father had decided to uproot them all and move miles away from their old home to the small town of Himring.

Maedhros and Maglor were due to begin their A Level studies and, instead of studying at their college of choice, were now forced to enlist for the Beleriand Learning Campus – which was conveniently only a mile away from their new home. Maglor had been fuming, having been looking forward to studying at a popular music school, and had raged against the decision. It had fallen to Maedhros to calm him down.

Perching himself on his bed, Maedhros absent-mindedly unlocked his phone opened up Instagram. He almost never posted but he liked the posts full of cats and hot dudes ogling their muscles.

“How you even learnt to use a phone with one hand is beyond me,” muttered Maglor, who was now sitting at his desk. Maedhros lifted his eyes to meet his brother’s. “Practise,” he said simply before returning to scrolling.

“Imagine having to double tap something to like it.” Maedhros ignored that.

One topic they never saw eye-to-eye on: Maedhros favoured Instagram.

Maglor was a Redditor.

They were silent like that for a while until they heard their mother’s calls for dinner. Scrambling to his feet, Maedhros strolled out of their room, into the hallway and down the stairs. Behind him, he heard his many siblings mimicking his movements, like a tightly knit band of marching soldiers. Maedhros headed into the dining room where his father and mother were already seated, tucking into the roast dinner.

He did not bother cutting any of the food up, as Maedhros sat down, seized his fork, and tore into the golden-brown roast potatoes. Cutting food was too time-consuming when you only had one hand. As he ate, his brothers paraded in and were seated with all the subtlety of a heard of elephants. To his right, Maglor swept gracefully onto his seat and winced at the pile of broccoli.

To his left were the youngest – twins, with near-identical faces and the same auburn hair as Maedhros. But unlike their eldest’s luxurious locks, Amrod and Amras both chose to keep theirs short and neat. They were annoying little pricks, being in their first year of high school, but their mischief remained mostly innocent.

The same could not be said of Caranthir: fourteen years old and already a heavy smoker. He had the dark hair that he shared with their father and Curufin, who was thirteen years old. Both were lazy and not to far off getting into serious trouble. Maedhros often tried to reprimand them, but Caranthir would smile patronisingly and remind him that “you’re not Dad.”

The two were sat beside Celegorm, fifteen, and unique in their family for his blond hair, and beside him was their mother. And at the head of the table was the enveloping figure of their father, Fëanor.

Maedhros had … complicated feelings regarding his father.

Fëanor pausing his eating and glanced down the rectangular table at his children, fixing them all with an icy stare that give them the option of disappointing him. Finally, he said, “are you all prepared for school tomorrow.”

Maedhros felt rather than saw Maglor roll his eyes. Before his brother could say something stupid, Maedhros cleared his throat. “Of course, Dad. Our bags are packed, and I have already received and replied to an email from the headteacher at Beleriand. We’re to head to his office to receive our timetables and to ask any questions we may have.”

A little too eager perhaps, but it was better than the sarcasm or decidedly rude remarks brimming in Caranthir and Curufin’s faces. _Ever the negotiator_ , Maedhros thought. It was a role Maedhros had come to accept, though not one he relished.

His father seemed satisfied with the response and Maedhros was ready to settle back into his meal when his mother piped up. “How are you finding your new rooms?”

The few murmurs of _alright_ and grunts of _fine_ that followed were enough to make Maedhros cringe.

Maglor seemed to have the same idea because he gave a coherent answer: “Me and Maedhros had a bit of a debate,” he said politely enough, “over what colour to paint our room. I said blue.” He swung his head right. “Maedhros said red.”

“And then we agreed to have two walls red and two blue,” Maedhros said coolly, and then chewed on a mouthful of chicken. Dinner with this family was less of a meal and more of a battlefield, where one had to carefully balance an attack and a defence.

Amras snorted. “That will look stupid.” Amrod nodded his agreement, spilling gravy in the process.

Not being in the mood, Maedhros forced a wave a calm and retreated without a reply.

His mother, on the hand, proceeded to begin scolding the twins and Maedhros zoned out of the warzone all together. Dinner was soon over and, after helping with the vacuuming, he withdrew to his room and resumed the mindless scrolling. Maglor joined him a moment later.

“After much consideration,” Maglor said by-way of greeting, “red and blue will look nice.” He flopped down on his bed that lay parallel to Maedhros’ own, just by the doorway. “The room will look vibrant – a perfect new environment for composing.” His voice turned thoughtful. “I wonder if their will be a music club at Beleriand.”

Maedhros switched his phone off and looked up at Maglor. He had often been told that they looked similar, apart from their hair of course. While Maedhros had been blessed with auburn from their mother, Maglor inherited the midnight tone of Fëanor.

Maedhros had realised years ago that, despite the difference in their crafts (Fëanor’s hobby was that of forging weapons; Maglor sang and played keyboard), his brother and his father were more alike than they let on. Both worked tirelessly to perfect their work, much to Maedhros’ chagrin when he was trying to sleep and Maglor wouldn’t stop with too-high notes.

But they were both perfectionists, and they hated dents and spikes and whatever lumps that they could not control. Despite his elegant demeaner, Maedhros knew his brother was worried about what tomorrow might bring – whether he would be accepted, or if he could accept the newness.

“Think of this as a fresh start,” Maedhros said, “we’re going into there tomorrow with no friends and no inclination of what we’re going to find. Maybe there will be a music club, maybe not – but we have to keep our expectations realistic.”

“Realism is for the unimaginative,” Maglor snorted, fishing his earbuds out from his backpack, and placing them in his ears.

Maedhros turned his attention back to his phone, even as the faint sound of classical orchestra wormed into his head. He glanced up to see Maglor, eyes closed, gently rocking his head to the music. Maedhros smiled and found himself looking out the window.

Despite the black of night, Maedhros could have sworn he saw an eagle swoop by. 

* * *

Author's Notes:

To my eternal disappointment, I do not own any of Tolkien's work.

I'm also cross-posting this on fanfiction.net.


	2. The Car of Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon makes his dramatic entrance :)

“ _You can danceeee, you can jiiiiiiiiiiiive_ ,” Fingon sang, drawing out the notes as best he could, “ _having the time of your lifffffffffffffffffe_ ”.

The lyrics of Dancing Queen flew around the car at the maximum volume and Fingon did not care how irritated his passenger was getting. His car – his rules.

Annoyed, Aredhel flicked her dark hair back. “Turn it down,” she demanded.

Fingon only smirked.

“My darling sister,” he said smoothly, tapping his fingers to the beat, “you’ve got to learn to appreciate the classics.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she sighed and turned back to her phone, frowning.

Daring a glance away from the road, Fingon did his best to peer over her shoulder. “Who’s that?”

Aredhel’s eyes snapped up. “ _Watch the road!_ ”

Rolling his eyes, Fingon faced forwards … and it was only a last-second reaction that had Fingon slamming the brake and not crashing into the car in front.

The blue Fiat 500 jerked to a halt and Aredhel swore colourfully. “Language,” Fingon said, switching back to first gear.

“Remind me again how you passed your driving test,” she grumbled as the traffic began moving again.

As a matter of fact, Fingon had only recently passed his driving test, having already failed once (who knew how hard it was to work the clutch?), and had since appointed himself to become his sister’s personal chauffer to school. Aredhel had been delighted, but only because she loathed the bus.

“By flooring it,” he replied and then, having not learnt his lesson, tried again to peer at Aredhel’s screen. This time, he caught a glimpse of a profile picture. “That’s not bloody Eöl is it?”

Aredhel scowled.

Fingon pressed the matter. “Why the hell haven’t you blocked him? The guy literally cheated on you and then tried to throw a pole at you.”

“I like watching him beg,” Aredhel said merrily and then typed it another response. Fingon scowled – which she noticed and grinned. “He’s terrified of you though. All I had to say is _Fingon sends his regards_ and I’ve got Eöl the shitbag on his knees.”

After Fingon had heard what Eöl had done to his sister, he’d hunted the bastard down and beaten the hell out of him. After that day, a clear message had been sent to any of Aredhel’s potential boyfriends: _Do not screw with Fingon’s sister._

The Beleriand Learning Campus came into view and Fingon lowered his speed, turning right past the gates and into the carpark. With more difficulty than he would admit, Fingon reversed into a parking spot and turned off the engine.

“Well?” Fingon smirked at Aredhel. “How was your first drive to school under your personal cabbie? Far better than the bus, I assume?”

“We almost died,” she said smoothly and got out.

Fingon rolled his eyes. Opening the window, he shouted over to the departing figure. “Quarter-past three, on the dot. Do. Not. Be. Late.”

Without looking back, Aredhel stuck her middle finger over her shoulder and continued walking. Fingon chuckled.

After locking up, Fingon breezed across the school grounds, heading towards his new form room. Big day – first day of A Levels. The only upside was, of course, being able to wear his preferred range of navy sport jackets. In her tight black blazer, Aredhel had silently raged.

Finding the room, Fingon gripped the doorframe and swung round into the classroom. The teacher, already grimacing at the sight of him, ordered Fingon to take a seat. A quick surveillance of the room and Fingon located his comrades. 

Sauntering over to the corner, Fingon sat down next to his golden-haired friend, her beautiful face already tight with disapproval. “Hey Galadriel”.

Galadriel folded her arms, the light catching the silver bracelets and ring she always wore. “You’re late,” she snapped.

Fingon winked. “Apologies. There was a bit of traffic and we almost crashed.”

“Bet Aredhel loved that.”

“She was ecstatic.”

Galadriel sighed and reached into her bag, taking out a folded sheet of paper. “Your new timetable,” she said, handing it to him, “they had already been given out, so I took yours for safe keeping.”

Taking a look over it, Fingon found himself groaning. The addition of frees were marvellous, but still… A double billing of PE first and second today, then geography and history tomorrow. 

As if sensing what he was going to ask next, Galadriel said, “and I’ve already checked, yes, our frees line up – though I don’t think Glorfindel or the others will.”

“Well, that’s mostly good news,” said Fingon, feeling surprisingly optimistic at that news, “do you want to go for a ride after second lesson then?”

Galadriel shrugged. “Why not.”

The bell rang and the pair got to their feet, waiting for the pile-up of students to pass before they exited the room. Galadriel soon turned off to head to maths while Fingon trudged over to the changing rooms to wait for PE.

The changing room was nice enough, two benches splicing the large room in two. No lockers, no showers, but it was at least clean, unlike some of the gyms Fingon had never gone back to.

Most of the students Fingon recognised, but there were a few unknowns that hung back from the larger group. He had not been expecting any of his friends to take this course, but he was a little bitter that the only people he was familiar with were, well, _them_.

That large group, comprising of Ulfang and his cronies, were on Fingon’s To-Avoid-At-All-Costs list. Ulfang himself, a large, bearded brute, glared at Fingon. He stared him down.

Eöl was not the only one whom Fingon had a nasty history with.

After changing into his gym clothes, Fingon leaned against the walls as Mr Tulkas entered, his muscled frame practically glowing. “Right then you miserable lot,” he bellowed, “we’re running laps today. Move it!”

That fast, Fingon’s new class were scampering out into the hot summer weather and onto the track. They were smart enough to begin stretching and Fingon was part way though flexing his calves when he noticed a flash of copper in the sun.

He turned and noticed one of the new people, standing on his own and out the way. His burning-red hair fell to the waist and, as the stranger rotated his arms, Fingon could not help but whistle at the size of those biceps.

Then he could not help but notice that the stranger was missing his right hand.

The stranger looked up and noticed Fingon staring, eyes narrowing.

Fingon gave a cheery wave and prowled up to him. “Hello.”


	3. The Track of Tulkas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros' first meeting with Fingon.  
> Basically, neither can keep their eyes off the other.

Maedhros wanted to slap the cocky grin off the boy’s face.

It was not that he was having a particularly good day anyway: being woken up by Celegorm and Caranthir screaming at each other did that to you. So, it had been that Maedhros, bleary eyed and with barely brushed hair, had been dragged out the door by Maglor and narrowly avoided missing the bus.

Beleriand Learning Campus had not been as daunting as Maedhros had expected. It was a modest sized facility, all set on one floor with various twisting corridors all crossing over like some sort of maze. A large carpark sat near the gates while the rest of the surrounding grounds comprised of muddied fields and worn wooden benches.

The headmaster, Mr Manwë, was nice enough, if a bit pompous with the jewelled headwear that snaked around his ears. After being welcomed, Maedhros and his brothers had been given their varying timetables and he had barely had time to arrange a meeting point with Maglor for breaktime before the bell had gone.

Now Maedhros was ready for laps in PE, a subject he had always excelled in, and had just been finishing his stretches when he had noticed one of his new classmates’ eyeline – directly upon him. Or more specifically, the boy seemed to be feasting on the sight of the stump on his right arm.

Noticing his attention, the boy had stalked to Maedhros. His long hair was shifting in the breeze and the dark length of it was offset by the gold weaved into the braids. The blue of his running shirt gave the boy an air of tranquillity. Majestic, confident – and he knew it.

The boy came to a stop and jutted out his left hand. “Hello.” The smile he wore was insufferable, someone too used to getting his own way.

Scowling, Maedhros said, “what do you want?”

The boy raised his brows at that, but the smile did not fade. He was also used to bluntness it seemed. “I figured that I should start to get to know people in this class – I’m Fingon.” The hand hadn’t retracted.

Drawing himself to his legs, Maedhros realised he was about a head taller than this Fingon. “Maedhros,” he said rather reluctantly and shook the boy’s hand.

“A beautiful name,” Fingon purred. His eyes flicked down, curiously illuminating his face. Following his gaze, Maedhros sighed. “Ask it.”

Sometimes it took a while, but anyone he had ever met always asked about the hand. He was glad Fingon was not trying to disguise it though – watching people doing their best not to stare made Maedhros want to pull his hair out.

“You don’t dance about it, do you?” Fingon crossed his arms. “Where did you leave your right hand?”

“None of your business.”

Fingon gave a low laugh, eyes alight with the prospect of a challenge; Maedhros just scowled – he was annoying, but a fun kind.

At that point, Mr Tulkas had caught up with them and loudly commanded them to run as many laps of the field as they could. A quick assessment told Maedhros each lap was about two hundred metres each.

The class grumbled and began a slow jog. Maedhros went to join them and found Fingon still at his side. Fun though he was, the boy was beginning to push Maedhros’ patience.

“Don’t you have someone else to annoy?” Maedhros ground out, pushing himself to the forefront of the running class. To his surprise, Fingon seemed to have little difficulty in keeping up. Maedhros was by no means a top athlete, but he did his best to keep his body active and healthy.

Quickly, Maedhros let his eyes go for a roam over Fingon, and found the navy running shirt he wore clung tightly to his body.

Fingon did not seem to notice Maedhros staring. “The only people I know in this class hate my guts – and for good reasons” he added.

Maedhros turned to face him, suddenly intrigued. “Who?”

They were now at the front of the front of the pack, so Maedhros had to twist his head all the way around to look at who Fingon subtly nodded towards – a broad chested boy, already flourishing a light brown beard and matching moustache.

“Ulfang,” muttered Fingon, “a bloody brute.”

“What’s his deal with you?” Maedhros asked as they tore past the first lap.

Fingon shook his head. “He’s just a jerk – ask anyone.” He smiled slowly, seemingly as some memory caught up with him. “So, I gave him what he deserved.”

“You two had a fight?” Maedhros cringed, hoping he had not fallen in with someone like Caranthir. 

“I kicked him in the balls.” Maedhros’ head swivelled towards Fingon, who shrugged. “Ulfang was picking on some little kid. I was walking past and just … acted.”

Maedhros nodded. “I don’t commend fighting, but it sounds justified.” He had broken up enough of his brother’s feuds to know when a punch was deserved or not.

“Have you even gotten in a fight?” Fingon asked – still sounding chirpy despite having just completed their second lap. He was enjoying this, Maedhros realised, running and chatting.

It made two of them.

“Only with my brothers,” Maedhros said, “as a rule, I try to avoid proper fights.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

Grinning, Maedhros answered “six”.

Fingon stumbled slightly and flipped his head around. “ _Six_? Blimey, I thought I had enough siblings with three.” They had begun to catch up with the rest of the class, all of whom were sending dirty looks over to the two who were now lapping them. Maedhros ignored them, focusing entirely on Fingon.

“I’m the eldest,” Fingon went on, “two younger brothers; and my sister, Aredhel, who’s two years younger.” He paused before continuing. “I beat up her ex-boyfriend as well – and that was totally justified.”

Maedhros sensed that was private information, so he said, “you seem to get in a lot of fights”.

Fingon pulled a face at that. “I almost, like, never fight though.”

“Sure, you don’t,” Maedhros said sarcastically. Fingon chuckled – something, Maedhros noticed, he seemed to do a lot. He liked it.

“Well, you know how it is,” Fingon replied, “you’ve got to watch out for your younger siblings.”

“I’m the eldest as well,” Maedhros found himself saying, “and I kind of feel responsible for all of them in a way, even if they never seem to want my help.”

Fingon nodded in understanding. “I get you.”

The rest of the lesson flew by and Maedhros and Fingon completed twenty laps before the two hours of lesson were over. Although his limps felt like rusted machinery, Maedhros was smiling as he entered the changing room. Fingon drifted off to the other side of the room towards his things and Maedhros reminded himself that it was inappropriate to check out boys in the bloody changing rooms.

That did not stop him from peeking, spying a well-formed set of stomach muscles on Fingon.

Maedhros turned away, his face heating to the same shade as his hair, and focused on removing his sweat-coated top.

After pulling on his crimson shirt and jeans, Maedhros walked out into the corridors and paused to wait for the current of students to pass. There was a flash of gold at his side, and Maedhros looked down at Fingon, playing with one of his braids.

“Seeing as though you’re new here,” Fingon said, flicking the braid back and looking up at Maedhros, “do you want to come and hang with my guys at break?” The offer was genuine.

“Actually, I’ve already got plans to, erh, meet with my brother Maglor at break,” Maedhros stammered, and instantly regretted it.

“Ah.” He could not tell if Fingon was disappointed or, worst, indifferent. “I’ll see you around then.” Fingon strutted off and Maedhros could have sworn the endless tide of students parted to let him through.

Why he declined Fingon’s offer was beyond Maedhros. He was cocky, yes, but fun to be around, although Maedhros doubted Fingon was feeling the same rush of emotions he was.

Scowling, Maedhros made his way through the corridor, trying not to think of how the layers of sweat had seemed to glow on the dark blue of Fingon’s shirt. Blue seemed to vex him wherever he went.

But Maedhros supposed he could come to like blue.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Just a quick note here, but don't expect the family trees in the Silmarillion to be the same here. Just so the characters aren't all related, Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin are not brothers.

Do leave a review if you like :)


	4. The Words of Galadriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon really needs to learn how to drive

“Maedhros is so fucking hot.”

“We heard you the first ten times.” Fingon could practically see the sarcasm dripping off Galadriel. She was in the passenger seat, where Aredhel had been just three hours ago. Unlike his darling sister, however, Galadriel had the window open a crack, allowing the gush of wind to seep through the car. Her golden curls fluttered in the breeze while she gazed out to the streaks of colour passing by.

By contrast to Galadriel’s tranquillity, in the rear-view mirror, Fingon could spy Glorfindel sprawled out across the backseats, one leg dangling over the over, focused entirely on his phone. It had not taken much convincing on Fingon’s part to get Glorfindel to skive: the usual promise of Mackie’s had sufficed. 

“I’m just saying,” Fingon replied, indicating right, “he’s fit and has gorgeous red hair – what’s not to love?”

“So, ask him out,” Galadriel said, closing her eyes against the wind.

Fingon shook his head. “I doubt he’s into guys. Besides, I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

“That’s what you said a week before you and Maeglin started dating,” Glorfindel drawled.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” groaned Fingon, “that was defo a mistake.”

“If you don’t want commentary on your love life, don’t keep yapping about it.”

Scowling, Fingon struggled to keep the retort down as he glanced at his mirrors before pulling onto a roundabout, and then into the motorway. “Do you want commentary on _your_ love life, Glorfindel?”

“Not particularly.”

“Because I can certainly give it to you.”

“Literally never asked for your opinion.”

“Guys.”

“How’s Ecthelion?” Fingon turned to face the backseat, displaying a smirk he knew would make Glorfindel see red.

Now sitting up, Glorfindel braced his hands on the doors – a golden lion prepping for a turf-war. “Same as he was the last time you stuck your nose in.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Galadriel repeated, gritting her teeth, “ _Fingon_. You missed the turning.”

Fingon swivelled back and swore. He had indeed not pulled away into the lane that led to their destination.

“Well, congratulations,” Galadriel sulked, “that’s extended the journey by about twenty minutes – more if you continue driving like a child.”

“Jokes on you, Gal,” Fingon said cheerily, even as his stomach moaned its displeasure, “that’s twenty more minutes in the fine company of my friends.”

Galadriel and Glorfindel grumbled some responses that Fingon did not particularly care for, so he drove in silence for a bit, determined not to screw up again. He was about to apologise when Glorfindel passed his phone up to Galadriel.

“Is that him?” Glorfindel asked and Galadriel held the screen up so Fingon could see. “Your new crush?”

Fingon squinted at the screen. It was an Instagram account with a sparse set of pictures featuring Maedhros. In the quick one-over he gave them, the photos all seemed to be of him at various sport events – usually running but there were a couple of him dressed in some kind of white robed martial art. There was also a black-haired boy in a few with a face strikingly like Maedhros’ – _one of his brother_ s, Fingon supposed.

“Yep,” Fingon confirmed as he resumed paying attention to the road, indicating to leave the motorway. He knew the surrounding area well enough that Fingon knew he would soon find a route to get them back on track. “That’s him.”

“Thought so,” said Glorfindel, taking back his phone. “I was searching for this other new kid – Maglor – that Ecthelion was telling me about break. Maglor’s pretty good at music apparently, so he might be joining Ecthelion’s guys.”

“So, how’d you end up on Maedhros’ profile?”

“Maglor’s account is, like, the definition of dead, but he’s been tagged in a couple of Maedhros’ photos. I’m guessing they’re brothers.”

“Apparently Maedhros has six brothers,” clarified Fingon, “but he mentioned meeting up with one of them at break.” He smiled. “Imagine having siblings who like you.”

“Aredhel would fall apart without you,” said Galadriel, finally shifting her posture and looking at Fingon, “she’ll never say it, but she adores you.”

Fingon found himself smiling.

After what seemed like forever, Fingon finally pulled into and (dreadfully) reversed into the Macdonald’s carpark. The three of them got and headed in, finding a seat towards the back of the diner. Being the polite one, Galadriel got up to place the orders.

At last, Fingon could examine Maedhros’ profile at his own leisure. After opening the app, he was disappointed to realise that there was not that much that he hadn’t seen the first time to examine. As someone who posted regularly about all aspects of his incredibly exciting and spectacular life, Fingon could not understand not posting. It made Maedhros all the more intriguing.

Annoyingly, the pictures did not reveal any hints as to the fate of his right arm, which meant Maedhros must have lost it when he was younger. Maybe he was born without one? Or perhaps some handsome knight lobbed it off to save his life. Sighing, Fingon clicked _follow_ before turning it off.

Galadriel returned at that point with a tray loaded with fries, brightly coloured boxes and tall cups brimming with bubbly liquid. Fingon and Glorfindel tensely waited the full nine seconds it took for her to sit down before pouncing.

She sighed as Fingon tore into his burger with the ferocity of a starved cat. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Fingon eyed her veggie burger and pulled a face. “Are you really sticking with that?”

Galadriel levelled a cold stare at him.

Glorfindel found a large stain on the table to be immensely interesting.

Grimacing, Fingon raised his hands in defeat. “Sorry.”

“As you should be,” Galadriel said and took a large mouthful of the tofu. She chewed thoughtfully before saying, “so, can we expect Maedhros to be joining this merry band soon?”

Fingon sipped his coke. “I already extended an olive branch to him today. No, not any time soon.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Glorfindel quipped, mouth full of crushed fries.

Galadriel swatted at him. “Mouth closed when we eat!”

Promptly shutting his gob, Glorfindel waited until he had finished chewing before continuing. “I mean, it’s hardly like we’re the coolest kids around.”

Fingon smirked. “Don’t know what you’re talking about – I’m the coolest kid in town.” Just for emphasis, he swung back one of his gold-woven braids.

Rolling her eyes, Galadriel said, “what Glorfindel is trying to say is that a number of our peers have it out for us.” She crossed her arms. “Or rather the pair of you.”

Fingon and Glorfindel began to protest as Galadriel said, “Ulfang, Salgant, Maeglin, Gothmog, Eöl,” ticking them off her fingers as she went. “Need I continue? How about, as a favour to me, both of you stop the rising rebellion against us?”

Smirking, Glorfindel said, “it’s easy for you, Gal. No one could possibly hate that lovely face of yours.”

Leaning in, Fingon indicated his and Glorfindel’s faces “I disagree, I think we’re got some relatively stunning features ourselves.”

Galadriel returned to her food, noticeably exhaling. “Idiots. My best friends are idiots.”

“You wound me,” Fingon mock-gasped, placing his hand over his heart.

Galadriel finished her burger and wiped her mouth. “You joke, Fingon, but mark my words. One of these days, someone’s going to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

Although he brushed it off at the time, Galadriel’s words continued to unsettle Fingon hours later. He prayed she hadn’t developed became a prophet. 


	5. The Texts of Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros deals with the aftermath of his first day at school ... which sounds a lot more dramatic than what it actually is.

Maedhros supposed Fingon would be delighted to know that he was still swirling around Maedhros’ mind for the rest of the day. The way the light caught the gold in his hair, the tilt of his mouth when he laughed, the size of-

“Earth to Maedhros.” Maglor snapped his fingers in front of Maedhros’ face, the sharp crack anchoring him back to reality. “Were you even listening to me?”

Blinking, Maedhros examined his surroundings, realising he was still on the school bus. They were seated on the front row – as far from the rest of their passengers as possible. Caranthir had taken a spot at the back, Celegorm and Curufin in the middle, and Amrod and Amras just a few seats behind them. To Maglor’s annoyance, Maedhros had been fast enough to grab the window seat.

Where, apparently, he had been daydreaming.

“Sorry.” Maedhros adjusted his posture to face his brother. “What were you saying?”

Maglor crossed his arms. “I was wondering who, exactly, you’d met that caused such a wistful look in your eyes.”

“No one,” Maedhros said quickly – too quickly going by the Maglor’s raised eyebrow.

Thankfully, the bus then slowed as it reached their stop. Maedhros grabbed his ruby-red backpack and stood up, following Maglor as they exited the bus. His five other siblings followed suit and once Caranthir had stepped off, the bus drove off into the distance.

Caranthir gazed at Maedhros. “That place is a dump.”

“Could have been worst,” Maedhros said dryly, leading the pack home.

“Could be better,” Caranthir countered. “I got chatting to a few of the lads and found out that the top dog here is in your year. Some bastard by the name of Ulfang.”

“He’s in my PE,” Maedhros said cautiously, even as his stomach turned queasy. Ulfang was the one who had previously got into a fight with Fingon. He was not sounding like the nicest of people.

“Ecthelion mentioned him too,” Maglor said, joining in, “Ulfang is apparently near the top of _people-to-be-avoided_.”

Caranthir laughed, a dark humourless echo. “I shall have to seek him out – perhaps he can hook me up with some vapes.”

Maedhros stopped and gripped Caranthir by the shoulder. “You will do no such thing.”

Caranthir leisurely looked up into Maedhros’ eyes and gave him a wolf’s grin. “Careful Maedhros; I’d hate for you to lose your other hand as well.”

Not disguising his glare, Maedhros slowly released Caranthir and, ignoring the wary looks the rest of his brothers gave him, stalked off.

By the time he was back in his room, Maedhros had thrown his bag into one corner and, for good measure, kicked the bed as hard as he could. Instant regret hit him when a sharp pain shot through his foot.

Laying down on the bed, Maedhros buried his head in the pillow as Maglor came in, shutting the door gently behind him. “Caranthir is a prick,” he heard Maglor say.

Maedhros untangled from his pillow and glanced up at Maglor, who was observing him carefully. “Where did I go wrong with him?” Maedhros quietly asked. He was not arrogant enough to believe he was a perfect older brother but recently he had found himself doubting more and more of his ability to … not control them, but … just be what an older brother should be – supportive, firm, but fair. The discovery of certain substances in Celegorm’s drawer had particularly disheartened him.

“It’s not your job to parent Caranthir or any of them,” Maglor said softly, “their failings are their own fault – not yours.”

“I feel responsible for them,” Maedhros sighed, “for all of them.” He looked into Maglor’s eyes. “Even you.”

Maglor cringed. “There’s less than eleven months between us.”

“Exactly – you’re like a baby to me.”

“Shut up grandad.”

Maedhros chuckled, feeling lighter already, and Maglor walked over to lie on his own bed. Unlocking his phone, Maedhros was surprised to see several new Instagram notifications.

**goldlocks14** started following you. _5 hours ago_

 **dor-lómin_king** liked your post. _4 hours ago_

 **dor-lómin_king** started following you. _4 hours ago_

 **lady_of_lórien** started following you. _2 hours ago_

Maedhros’ brows furrowed in initial surprise, only rarely being active enough or having enough friends to gain any followers – let alone four. After a moment though, he deduced it was Fingon and the friends he had mentioned to having. Indeed, after clicking on _dor-lómin_king_ , his suspicions were proven correct.

In contrast to Maedhros’ own meagre set of photos, Fingon had hundreds of images documenting every moment of his life alongside some questionable memes. He detailed everything from his outdoors exploits (several photos involved archery) to what he had for dinner (last night: pineapple pizza).

The most recent photo had been taken just four hours ago – the same time Fingon had started following him. In the image was Fingon, clinking drinks with a golden-haired, stunning boy while a girl dressed all in silver stared at them from the head of the table, but was gently smiling. These two appeared regularly in the other images and Fingon supposed they were his other two new followers.

After taking a quick browse through the other two – Galadriel, whose account were filled with nature stills as beautiful as she was, and Glorfindel, whose posts were more or less like Fingon’s – before Maedhros followed all three.

Less than a minute later, he received a new message alert.

**dor-lómin_king**

how did u lose ur hand

?????

Noneya

noneya cut it off?

None ya business

wow

and here I was thinking we had a connection today

Modest much?

Your username literally says king

well

what the hell does copper-top mean

Maedhros grinned at the reference to his own username: _copper-top1_

_**dor-lómin_king** _

It’s a nickname my mum gave me

Because I have copper hair

Duh

imaginative

lmfao maedhros, ur a mamas boy

I love my mum

And my hair

Stfu

so do I

ur hair I mean

love ur copper hair :)

weirdo

Maedhros smiled broadly as he fired back his reply, warmth gathering in his stomach, and he self-consciously started stroking his hair. His auburn tresses had always been his favourite part of himself. Even if the rest of him was all gangly and too-long limbs, he loved his hair.

Fingon did not reply for a few hours and Maedhros was beginning to wonder if he had been aired when, at twenty past ten, the message notification box lit up.

u love it really

<3

They kept texting for the rest of the night.


	6. The Matchmaking of Aredhel and Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel gives Fingon on how to build his relationship with Maedhros.  
> Also, Thorondor makes his debut!

Fingon huffed as his arms finally gave out and he collapsed onto the soft carpet of his bedroom. Panting, he rolled onto his back and stayed like that for a minute or two, just staring up at the ceiling as his breathing eased. Fingon supposed it would definitely be considered a flex: spending an hour every evening completing an exercise routine. Normally it was an eight-kilometre run or a series of push-ups and lunges – like today. If Fingon was feeling particularly aggravated, a session of yoga would help. He had Galadriel to thank for that idea. Between that and the other physical activities, he had found that it helped work off any stress or bad moods he had.

That was certainly the reason why Fingon had been pushing himself more than usual.

Not because he wanted to impress a certain red-haired boy or anything.

Sighing, Fingon covered his eyes with his hands and then sat up, pushing himself to his feet. He pulled his hair free from the knot he had braided it into and, grabbing a nearby towel, wiped the sweat from his forehead. If he were a rational guy, Fingon would have cut his hair to stop it getting in the way and so he would not have to waste time braiding it. But no-one had ever accused Fingon of being rational.

A pattering of feet coming his way brought on a smile and Fingon turned to see a large greyhound trot into the room. The dog ran up to Fingon, who knelt down to embrace him.

“Hello, Ron,” Fingon whispered, rubbing the dog’s shaggy coat affectionally, “good day?”

Ron barked happily and Fingon patted his head. Ron – short for Thorondor – had been the family pet for two years, but it was Fingon who had grown the most fond of the caramel-eyed, brown furred hound. Having been a retired greyhound racer, Ron had a muscular build and stood tall and proud by Fingon’s side.

Standing up, Fingon pulled off his vest and sprayed on deodorant, the thick scent smearing the air. Grabbing a navy hoodie, Fingon said to Ron “snack?” and received a _woof_ of agreement. He let Ron led the way to the kitchen where Aredhel was seated at the table – texting and not looking up. Their dad remained at the sink, washing up, but grinned at his eldest son as Fingon entered the room. “I suppose you’re hungry,” his dad called.

“Starving,” Fingon replied cheerily and took a seat at the rounded table, opposite Aredhel. Ron curled up at his feet. His sister took one sniff of Fingon and pulled a face. “You stink.” He flashed her a grin and gave his father an even larger one when he dumped a plate of biscuits before him.

“Did I mention,” Fingon said as he broke the first rounded digestive in half, “that you’re the best dad in the entire world?”

His father shrugged. “Only when you want something.” Aredhel’s lips curled in agreement.

“You wound me,” Fingon grunted, mouth full of biscuit. His dad raised his hands in defence as he walked off towards the living room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Aredhel put her phone down and stare at Fingon. “What?” he said.

“When were you going to tell me about your new boyfriend?”

Fingon choked, dissolving into a coughing fit. Aredhel’s eyes sparked.

Thumping his chest, Fingon was form some cohesive words. “First of all: not my boyfriend.” It had been a month since the start of the new term and, although he and Maedhros had gotten closer, Fingon was sure they were not getting “relationship-y” closer. Even if Fingon’s admiration for him had evolved into a fully nurtured crush.

After the first few days, Fingon had finally inducted Maedhros into his friend circle. The tall boy had been nervous and withdrawn at first – especially around Glorfindel – but Maedhros had gotten much more comfortable as the days had gone by. His dry and grounded expressions had helped Galadriel to like him, probably as she was no longer the only sane one, and Fingon could now comfortable call Maedhros a close friend. Never mind that he wanted more.

“Second of all,” Fingon continued, the coughing having ceased, “how do you know about Maedhros?” He had been incredibly careful not to mention him around Aredhel.

She waved her phone at him, showing him the screen that displayed texts between her … and Galadriel. “We talk,” Aredhel explained, “like, a lot. It would seem she’s starved of female common sense.”

Fingon rolled his eyes, making a mental note to have _words_ with Galadriel. “And what else did she say?”

“That you’re completely obsessed with Maedhros, yet you’re making no obvious moves towards him like the dumbass you are.”

He stroked Ron’s ear absent-mindedly. “It’s not that I’m not making moves, I just don’t know if he, like, likes guys. And if he doesn’t, then I don’t want to spoil a friendship I really like by making it weird.”

She frowned. “Just ask him outright if he’s gay then.”

“That’s a stupid idea that opens up some very awkward motivations on my part. No.”

“Fine,” Aredhel rested her head on her fist, “then how about ask someone who Maedhros is close with?”

“I don’t know anyone who –” Fingon begin to protest and then paused, like a lightbulb had flicked on in his brain. “On second thoughts, you’re actually a genius, Aredhel.”

She smiled and reached down to pat Ron, who licked her enthusiastically. “Happy to help.”

* * *

The next day, Fingon headed down to the music room that Ecthelion and his band occupied. They were technically part of Fingon’s wider friend circle, so he had good relations with them. Reaching the room, he eased open the door to reveal a large classroom filled with varying kinds of instruments. The four individuals chatting animatedly in the centre all stopped abruptly and looked over to Fingon. He winked.

Ecthelion, clasping his flute, grinned back, and walked over with Finrod, bearing wide and genuine smile, to grasp Fingon’s hand. Fingon knew Ecthelion through Glorfindel, a “friendship” so ripe with sexual tension it could not only be cut with a knife, but cooked, spiced, and heated until it was medium-rare and then served with some potatoes. As for Finrod, he was far too nice for this world and he was one of those people who looked and acted like a cinnamon roll, yet could actually kill you.

The only girl there, Lúthien, looked at Fingon nervously and quickly blushed when he gave her a cheery wave. The final and newest member of this cabal was none other than Maedhros’ eldest younger brother: Maglor, who was built broader and less lanky than his sibling. Maglor was also the reason Fingon had come here.

“As much as its always a pleasure for you to drop by, Fingon,” Ecthelion said, patting him on the shoulder, “what do you want?”

“Can’t this just be a social visit?” Fingon said innocently.

Ecthelion snorted his disbelief.

Fingon inclined his shoulders. “Fair enough.” He settled his gaze on Maglor, who shifted uncomfortably. “Can I have a talk with your lastest addition?”

Raising a brow, Maglor followed Fingon out into the corridor. Shutting the door behind him, Fingon started the interrogation as politely as possible. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Maglor said, letting his eye wonder over Fingon for a moment. They caught on the gold entwined in his dark braids – not as many today as a result of waking up later, leaving a large mass of Fingon’s hair to fall casually to his shoulders. “You’re Fingon, aren’t you – Maedhros’ friend.”

Fingon bowed deeply. “At your service.”

“We’ve never been formally introduced,” Maglor said, amused by Fingon’s stoop. “I’m Maglor, Maedhros’ brother. But I’m assuming you already knew that if you were seeking me out.”

“Clever boy,” Fingon replied. Having already rehearsed this conversation several times today, Fingon was a tad unsettled with the direction of the conversation – he had expected at least a couple lines of small talk. It was as if Maglor had been waiting for this day – and had been prepared for it.

“I’m going to make some deductions,” Maglor said evenly, “because Maedhros has constantly been sending messages back-and-forth with _someone_ for the last month or so, the same _someone_ , I’m assuming, who he often gets a dreamy look on his face for. The someone whom he simultaneously won’t talk about and won’t shut up about.” He stared hard at Fingon.

Fingon casually twirled one of his braids. “Did he say if this _someone_ is hot?”

Maglor took a deep breath, muttering, “I’m so done with this shit.” Bracing his hands on his hips, he said, “can we hurry this up? Ask what you want.”

“Is Maedhros into guys?” _Is he into me??!_

“Are you really asking me that?” Maglor shook his head and gripped the door handle. “He tries to keep it hidden, but I can see him checking out … stuff that I want burned out my memory. Involving guys. So, yes, I’d say so.” And with that, Maglor stepped back into the room, leaving Fingon outside, his insides in uproar.

It was only as Fingon was driving away that he realised he should have sworn Maglor to silence. He groaned internally at the prospect of Maglor potentially spilling the beans to Maedhros. _Can’t be helped now_ , Fingon thought grimly.

Despite that, the interrogation was relatively successful as he had learnt that, not only was Maedhros gay, but also, he was crushing heavily on someone – maybe him? Fingon could only hope.

He told as much to Aredhel, who seemed to have appointed herself Fingon’s personal matchmaker. She listened intently to his report and, after he finished, said, “so are you going to ask him out now?”

Fingon averted her gaze and drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Maybe. Maglor didn’t outright say that I’m Maedhros’ crush. There’s still a lot of variables to account for yet, little sister.”

“Now you’re just making excuses.”

“It’s called caution.”

Aredhel facepalmed and Fingon could just hear her murmur, “I’m so done with this shit.”


	7. The Power of Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros and Maglor have a rather eventful free period.  
> AKA, the chapter where far too much time was spent trying to figure out how to spell "broest".

Maedhros rotated his neck as he approached his and Maglor’s usual sitting area for the free period they shared. Although his timetable mostly coincided with his new friends Fingon and Galadriel, he still enjoyed spending time with his brother.

Saying that though, Maedhros was surprised by how much he liked Fingon and the others. Galadriel especially had been nothing but warm and welcoming, even if there were some pointed questions about his and Fingon’s _physical activities_ that had made his face match his hair colour. It had been a month and a few weeks since he had joined and met Fingon, and Maedhros’ less than friend-like feelings still hadn’t subsided. It was not like Fingon would return the feelings and, while that sucked, Maedhros was fine with things as they were.

Maglor was already sitting at their spot under the tall oak trees just by the gate. Being only mid-October, the ground was still dry and was covered in a rustic array of autumn leaves that crunched beneath Maedhros’ boots. This particular spot was out of the way of the other students, both in-class and out, and the brothers appreciated the solitude.

Dumping his bag down, Maedhros took a seat adjacent to his brother. “Hi,” he said and Maglor raised a finger to his brow, saluting his greeting. Like Maedhros, Maglor had quickly settled down into a friend group – a music group specifically, and one that was part of Fingon’s wider circle. This was something Maedhros had come to understand – that there were no singular groups, just an interconnected web of people; each strand linking to another in some way.

Maglor had described it like an orchestra, and then spewed something about bases and arrangements and motifs … and Maedhros had just taken his word for it.

Looking up from his phone, Maglor said, “I won’t be on the bus back today – band practise.”

Maedhros nodded. “Are you going to get dropped off then?”

“Finrod, broest of bros, offered me a lift.” A pout. “you need to hurry up and get your driving license – having to rely on the bus and others for transportation is unacceptable.”

“I know,” Maedhros agreed.

He was going to leave the conversation there, but Maglor then said, “Fingon has a nice car, doesn’t he.”

Maedhros frowned – it was an odd way of bringing up Fingon. “Yeah, he passed his test at the end of the summer and his dad got him a Fiat.”

“Nice.” Maglor fidgeted with a bit of loose hair. “Me and Fingon had a nice talk the other day, you know.”

Maedhros twisted to get a full view of Maglor. He was sitting extremely casually, fingering his hair, and his face was the portrait of innocence. Suspicion churned in his stomach. “And?”

“You came up.”

“Are you going to continue to be deliberately coy?”

A flicker of a smile appeared on Maglor. He coughed, then straightened. “Maedhros, are you-”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a rush of air that had Maedhros darting to his left – narrowly missing a deformed conker whizzing past – smacking into the tree behind him. Maedhros swivelled and glared over at the thrower. They were standing about twenty feet away – five broad shouldered boys, all of whom bore a variety of sneers and hideous smiles. The thrower stood at the centre, taller than the rest of them and infinitely nastier – Ulfang.

Perhaps unwisely, Maglor sneered back. “Would you mind just _pissing off_.”

Ulfang laughed at his boldness. “Sorry about that, bad aim and all.” Maedhros doubted that. If he were apologising for his aim, it would only be because he missed.

“Ignore them,” Maedhros hissed under his breath, turning away. Maglor looked inclined to throw something back but followed his brother’s lead.

Unfortunately, Ulfang did not play along and Maedhros grimaced as he heard the harsh crunch of leaves as the brute approached. Cursing softly, Maedhros stood up, back already tight with tension. Ulfang did not stop until he and Maedhros were face to face, their breath mingling – Ulfang’s reeked of smoke. 

“What do you want?” Maedhros asked as calmly as possible. At his full height, he was slightly taller than Ulfang and, despite the considerable size of his arms, Maedhros found Ulfang to not be as intimidating as he had thought.

Ulfang discarded the question and nonchalantly brushed a speck of dust off Maedhros’ shoulders. His hazel eyes may have looked confident but Maedhros noticed the slight tautness in Ulfang’s movements. It seemed that he too had underestimated Maedhros’ size – and the potential force of his fist. “You’re Fingon’s new friend, aren’t you.” Not a question.

Maedhros resisted the urge to groan. _Why is everyone asking me about Fingon?_ “And?”

“Friendly piece of advice: stay away from him.”

“Why?” Maedhros tried to sound bored. “Is this a slice of well-meaning concern – helping me avoid get kicked in the balls as well?”

Ulfang’s nostrils flared and looked to raise his arms – but Maedhros beat him to it.

Grabbing the collar of Ulfang’s coat, Maedhros twisted himself to the side – sticking out his leg as he did. Before Ulfang realised what was going on, Maedhros pulled down on his opponent’s collar as hard as possible. The forwards momentum carried them both – Ulfang went flying over Maedhros’ leg and tumbled to the ground with a thud.

Landing on his knees beside him, Maedhros scrambled to sit on top of Ulfang’s chest, using his knees to clamp down on his arms. Ulfang thrashed – at least until Maedhros’ hand jerked down on his collar, leaving Ulfang’s neck exposed for Maedhros’s stump to press down under the chin. Not a perfect chokehold, but it worked well enough.

Maedhros heard Maglor and Ulfang’s cronies gasp – of despair, shock and even admiration – but he did not let his attention waver. He stared hard into Ulfang’s eyes, lit up with pain and rage. “Not bad for a one-handed man, eh,” Maedhros breathed so only Ulfang could hear. For a split-second, he debated whether to give Ulfang a serious injury, a reminder not to mess with him.

But the adrenaline of the fight faded, and sense returned. Slowly, Maedhros released the chokehold and lifted himself off Ulfang, carefully standing out of his reach. Wheezing, Ulfang got to his feet, his wrath simmering.

“Go on,” Maedhros ordered, “get out of here.”

“This isn’t over,” Ulfang breathlessly promised and then, to Maedhros’ surprise, prowled off. His cronies, some with their mouths still agape, waited until he had re-joined them before walking off. Ulfang remained silent, casting a glare over at Maedhros before they passed the gates and were out of sight.

Taking a deep breath, Maedhros placed his hands on his hips and looked at Maglor, admiration embedded in his every feature. “Maedhros, what the _fuck_ was that?”

Maedhros did not reply and sat down. Maglor waited expectantly. Maedhros sighed. “That, was me acting rashly and not considering the consequences.” He groaned. “Brilliant, now I have a target on my back.”

But a full smile was shining from Maglor. “It was worth it. Not only did you stand your ground and drawn a line, but the look on that dickhead’s face is going to be my new fantasy at night. They know not to mess with you now.”

Furiously rubbing his brow, Maedhros shook his head. “No, you idiot, now they’re not going to stop messing with me.”

Maglor shrugged. “Still worth it.”

* * *

By the time PE rolled around, Maedhros found himself agreeing: Fingon was doubling-over in a fit of laughter.

“So, you,” he was able to wheeze out in between guffaws, “threw him to the ground, pinned down his arms and _fucking choked_ him – quite literally single-handedly.”

Maedhros found himself smiling too. “It wasn’t as cool as all that.”

Fingon wiped away a tear. “Oh, I love you Maedhros.”

Maedhros instantly found his throat to be dry and turned away to grab his water-bottle. He waited until the blush had faded before turning back.

They were inside the gym today, working in pairs to complete rounds of sit-ups – one to do the exercise, the other to hold their toes. Maedhros had made sure he and Fingon were positioned as far away from Ulfang as possible, who had glared at them with pure, undiluted hate.

Mastering himself enough to resume his sit-ups, Fingon said, “well at least he hates us both equally now.”

Maedhros frowned, gripping Fingon’s toes tightly. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“Sure, it is,” Fingon snorted, “you just formally declared war on Ulfang – so now we’re brothers-in-arms too.”

“I can barely supress my delight.”

Grinning, Fingon did another couple sit-ups before pausing for breath. Maedhros noticed him biting his lip for a second before he spoke. “Do you want to go for a run with me sometime? I know we run, like, all the time here, but I’d like to see just how good you are.” Another grin. “Without having to watch each other’s backs for the enemy.”

“Sure,” Maedhros said with a shrug, even as his heart raced.

“Excellent. Saturday, four o’clock – do not be late.”

Between Ulfang and Fingon, Maedhros was still smiling as he curled up in bed and dropped off to sleep, dreaming of hair glistening with gold and vengeful eyes stalking him.


	8. The Revelations of Fingolfin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon prepares for his not-a-date with Maedhros.  
> Also, the first indications that this thing might actually have a plot.

The Fingon in the mirror glared, then rubbed his cheek where there was a slight incline of red skin – a sure sign of an emerging, giant, bulbous spot.

It was a disaster.

Maybe he still had time to cover it up…

There was a loud bang on the bathroom door, then, “get a move on you bitch, your face is fine,” yelled Aredhel.

Fingon sighed and looked away from the mirror, yanking open the door to reveal Aredhel shooting daggers, her hands clamping the space between her thighs. “You were in there for _twenty bloody minutes_ ,” she snarled.

He inclined his head. “Apologies, sister dear.” Standing aside, Fingon gave an extravagant gesture to motion her inside. In return, Aredhel gave him a vulgar gesture and hurriedly stepped past him.

And then promptly slammed the door in Fingon’s face.

Chuckling, Fingon made his way down the hall and into his bedroom. He had been very proud of himself for arranging a not-date with Maedhros and he was eager to not screw it up. Having cleared up the mystery of Maedhros’ sexuality, the next phase of the plan was to determine whether or not Maedhros found him attractive.

Thus, and Fingon had to pat himself on the back for this, was the beauty of going for a run with him. Not only was it a convenient reason to wear the least amount of clothes possible, but it would also push their bodies until they were teeming with adrenaline and sweaty muscle. Plus, people were more attractive when exercising. There was science to back it up, which Fingon discovered after an extensive thirty seconds of Google searching.

With this in mind, Fingon had selected an extremely light ocean-blue vest and matching shorts – which was possibly a mad idea considering the autumn drizzle outside, but Fingon passionately believed that wisdom was for the weak. The world rewarded the bold.

Which he hoped was true, as Fingon had also taken more time than usual to braid his hair. Normally for exercise, he would just pull it back into a simple ponytail. This time, Fingon had elated to employ the services of a reluctant Aredhel to plait his hair into a long braid that swung down his spine. And, obviously, gold was woven in.

At 3:55, Fingon was pacing in the sitting room, pretending to be stretching his arms but just held them lifelessly in a cross. His father strolled in and sunk down onto the sofa. “Who is it you’re running with today?”

“My new friend,” Fingon said dully, hoping to bring the conversation to a close swiftly.

“Ah… Is it Galadriel? Glorfindel? Ecthelion?” His dad made a point to remember all his friends’ names.

“You’ve not met.”

His dad grinned broadly. “What a perfect time to get introduced. Can I at least get a name?”

Fingon opened his mouth but, fortunately, the doorbell rang out. “I’ll get it,” Fingon said as his dad made to stand up. He raced to the door and flung it open. Maedhros stood there, arms crossed and smiling. “Please,” Fingon said, inviting him in.

For every item of sensible clothing that Fingon had discarded, Maedhros had worn. Any section that his volcanic-red and long-sleeved shirt didn’t cover was reinforced by the black base layer underneath, while his legs were protected by skin-tight bottoms. Additionally, while Fingon had opted for a stylist hair, Maedhros had tied his back with a simple leather strap. As Maedhros stepped past him, Fingon tried not to look like he was drinking him in.

“Wonderful weather we’re having today,” Maedhros said with a raised brow at the vest and shorts. Fingon pouted his lower lip. “I dress to impress, not for the weather.” Maedhros merely indicated the rain that was now spraying the pavement, the gathered grey clouds, and the whirling wind, before heading into the living room.

His dad had gotten to his feet and marched over to Maedhros and shot him with two finger guns. Fingon wanted to die. “Welcome, you must be Fingon’s friend,” his dad winked and extended a hand. “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m the dad and am armed with many baby photos.”

Maedhros smiled and gripped his hand. “A pleasure, sir, I’m Maedhros.”

And just like that, to Fingon’s shock, his warm, loving dad recoiled back like he had been bitten. Maedhros’ face fell as Fingon’s dad turned pale – his eyes darting down to Maedhros’ right arm. To what was missing there. Before Fingon could react, his father appeared to master himself, clasping Maedhros on the back before excusing himself. Fingon made himself shoot his dad a glare before he left. The message was clearly conveyed: _we’ll talk later_.

Maedhros turned to him and Fingon’s heart cracked at the confused devastation on his face. “What was that about?”

Shaking himself back into the world, Fingon fumbled for an answer. “Honestly, I don’t know – probably just not a good day for him. He’s never normally like that.”

Maedhros turned to the window, where raindrops slithered down. “Maybe – maybe the sight of me only having one hand … shocked him? Triggered something?”

Fingon did not know how to respond to that. Instead, he said, “never mind him.” He flashed Maedhros what he hoped was a confident smirk. “Come on, try and keep up.”

He was relieved to see Maedhros grin. “Funny – I was going to say the same to you.”

* * *

To Fingon’s joy, Maedhros did keep up. He was not as accustomed to long runs as Fingon, but Maedhros made up for it with sheer grit. They ran a good eight miles before Maedhros had broke and they turned back – which was a relief as Fingon had been moments away from yielding himself. Partly out of guilt, Fingon had kept up a stream of pleasant small talk throughout the run and, despite the tiredness and stitches that set in, Fingon thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Even the rain eased off.

As Fingon saw his house approaching in the distance, his heart sank at the thought of the evening coming to an end. Putting in a last dollop of effort, the two sprinted hard for the door and were panting hard as they finished. Bracing his hand against the wall, Fingon tried to send a grin, in between deep breaths, to Maedhros – bent over with his hands on his knees. “You kept up.”

Maedhros looked up and wheezed, “surprised?”

Not quite willing to let the evening end yet, Fingon opened the front door. “By all means, come and have a rest.”

Maedhros looked inside, frowning – hesitating.

But Fingon, with several internal curses at his father, was having none of it. “Maedhros, you’re not walking home looking like a sweaty mess – come on.”

Without a word, Maedhros slunk inside, evidently wary of who he might meet inside. Fingon too did a fast assessment – no sign of his father. “Up the stairs and second door on the right is my room,” he said, “blue walls, lots of posters – you can’t miss it. Bathroom is first on the left.”

His friend upturned his nose. “Are you implying that I smell?”

“No, never – but…” Fingon patted him on the back. “It’s there if you want to … freshen up.” He moved towards the kitchen. “I’m going to rustle up some food – I’ll be up in two minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

In the kitchen, Fingon found Aredhel waiting, hands braced on her hips – waiting for him apparently. “What the hell happened with dad?” she demanded.

“Where is everyone else?” Fingon asked, pointedly ignoring her question.

“Argon and Turgon are in their rooms,” she said, “while daddy went for a walk immediately after you two left. I repeat: _what the hell happened?_ ”

“I wish I knew,” Fingon sighed, “he was fine when he first saw Maedhros, until he learnt his name and saw the missing hand. I reckon he knew Maedhros from somewhere.”

“Well, you ruined what should have been a peaceful evening for me.”

“My poor baby sister,” Fingon crooned as he snatched up a couple packets of crisps and some water bottles. “Do me a solid, and don’t disturb us.”

Aredhel picked at her nails. “I hope you two are taking precautions.”

Fingon shot her an incredulous look before walking up to his room. He found Maedhros sitting on the bed with Ron curled up beside him. Maedhros, freshly washed hair glistening, was patting Ron’s head. He gave Fingon an apologetic look as he came in. “I don’t know if your dog’s allowed on the bed – he just came in, licked me, and lay down.”

Rubbing Ron’s belly, Fingon also sat down on the bed. “Of course, he is – Ron’s a very good boy. Brave, loyal, a bit dumb…” he winked at Maedhros. “You two have a lot in common.”

Maedhros swatted him. “Rude.”

Laughing, Fingon grabbed the remote from his bedside table and switched on the tv. “Right,” he said, handing Maedhros the water, crisps and the remote. “I got snacks – so now we need something to watch. Guest gets to choose.”

“I don’t mind.” Maedhros replied – _the guy is probably to use to playing Switzerland_ , Fingon mused. “I insist.”

Maedhros considered for a few moments, and Fingon was glad he had delegated the choice to him. Not only was this probably the first time in ages that Maedhros did not have to bow to the choices of his brothers, but selecting the film revealed a lot about your character – you could choose what you want, and risk being embarrassed, or choose the popular choice just to avoid said embarrassment.

“The Shining,” Maedhros, selecting the film. Fingon frowned and looked at Maedhros. For a movie he had chosen, he didn’t look that thrilled about it.

“Try again,” Fingon said, crossing his arms.

“You get scared?” Maedhros teased, though something like relief flashed across his eyes.

“I said you get to choose,” Fingon responded, “and I mean it: what do you want to watch?”

Maedhros was silent, and then, completely unhesitant – like some leash on himself snapped – selected a familiar animation. “Frozen.”

Fingon grinned. “That’s more like it.”

As it turned out, Frozen was not only one of Fingon’s favourite films, but one of Maedhros’ as well. They sang loud and unapologetically whenever a song came on and, towards the end, had an argument over whether _Let It Go was_ the best song. Maedhros, being an idiot, favoured _For The First Time In Forever_. About half-way through, Fingon dared to let his head rest on Maedhros’ shoulder. He did not object. The only downside remained Ron sleeping between them, preventing Fingon from snuggling any closer.

It was pitch black by the time the credits rolled and Maedhros swore when he saw the time. He practically leaped downstairs, thanked Fingon for the run and film, and was out the front door. Fingon was smiling throughout all of it and waved to Maedhros as he half-sprinted away.

It was only when Maedhros was gone that Fingon let the smile fade. He sauntered into the living room where Aredhel was sitting. “Is dad back?”

She nodded. “I’ll send him in.”

Sitting down, Fingon waited patiently as Aredhel left and marched upstairs. He didn’t move until his dad entered, who immediately found somewhere else to look besides his son’s face. Wearing a mask of passiveness, Fingon pointed at the adjacent armchair. “Take a seat.”

His dad obeyed and wrung his hands together as he did.

“I’ve had five hours to think about what happened,” Fingon said, more calmly than he felt, “and I can only conclude that you know Maedhros from somewhere – and that its not a particularly good memory.”

Clasping his hands, his father said, “I’ve known Maedhros since he was a baby – before he lost his hand.” Fingon’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to demand an answer, but his dad had not finished.

“I worked with his father, Fëanor, for a good many year.” His tone turned distant, like he was getting lost in the memory. “We both studied history and forging, were both obsessed with it. We were the best of friends.” A bitterness suddenly coated his words. “But we had a falling out.

“It was a massive falling out. It had been building up for some time though – disagreements becoming more frequent, our other acquaintances getting more frustrated with Fëanor’s erratic behaviour. I cannot even remember what it was over, but it was late, we were both hot and tired and been taking swipes at each other all evening. I said … some things that I regret … and then the sword was in Fëanor’s hand.”

His father unbuttoned his shirt and Fingon gasped to see a long scar snaking down his chest. Directly over the heart.

“I just left after that.” His father finished and redid his shirt. “You’ve not been over to Maedhros’ house, have you?”

Fingon shook his head.

“Good; I wouldn’t go. You look very much like I did at your age, so I doubt Fëanor will not recognise you. Or approve of you.” A dark laugh. 

For the second time that day, Fingon did not know how to respond. Eventually, he said, “I’m sorry.” What else could he say?

His dad gave him an appreciative smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s all in the past anyway. Just make sure you and Maedhros be better friends than we were.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Next time you bring him round, let me know – so I can apologise.”

“I will.”

They just sat there in silence for a minute or two, until Fingon reached for the television remote and switched it on. They vaguely watched sport for the next hour and the, once the match was over, Fingon strolled over to his dad, embracing him.

It was only when he was in bed that Fingon slapped himself – he had forgotten to ask his dad how Maedhros had lost his hand.


	9. The Fury of Fëanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros deals with revelations from his own father.

It was not as if he disliked beef and onion pie, but Maedhros found himself unable to do anything but pick at his meal the next day. That evening with Fingon had been as near to perfection as Maedhros could have hoped – the sight of Fingon’s damp, well-built body with that damned vest sticking to him, and the feel of his head reposing on his shoulder… He had been so close that Maedhros could smell the mint on Fingon’s breath.

Maedhros had come awfully close to confessing to what he felt for Fingon.

And it was the reason why he had not that continued to gnaw away at him. The reaction of Fingon’s father to him remained utterly perplexing. The man had been fine, joyous even, upon meeting him – had offered Maedhros his hand.

But when Maedhros had told him his name, the man had flinched, shrunk back, and paled. It had been the way he had stared at Maedhros’ stump, however, that had shattered him. The loss of his right hand had never bothered Maedhros – not really. He had long since learnt how to live with only his left hand and, aside from the staring of strangers, had never affected him.

Now, it had felt like Maedhros had been judged for it – and by the father of the boy he wanted to kiss. The thought was enough to make him to lose his appetite.

Across the table, his brothers’ plates emptied while Maedhros’ remained full. His mother shot him a suspicious glare. “Is there something wrong with the pie?”

“Not hungry,” Maedhros said dully, and forced himself to swallow a mouthful. His mum continued to look at him suspiciously for a few moments before returning to her own food.

The rest of the meal followed in a sullen silence but Maedhros made himself clear his plate, if only to avoid any further suspicion. This failed and, as he dried up the pots, his mum, who was washing up, resumed her questioning once everyone else had cleared off.

“Maedhros,” his mum said suddenly, “you’ve been looking downcast all evening – what’s bothering you?” Worry shone in her eyes and Maedhros had to turn away.

A part of him wanted to ignore her, yet… “My friend’s father had an – interesting reaction to me yesterday,” Maedhros said quietly.

His mother whipped her eyes towards him, the pots forgotten. “How so.”

He shrugged, grabbing a plate, and wiping it clean of suds. “I think it – I think it was my hand – or, like, lack of one.” 

Her gaze drifted to Maedhros’ right arm, which currently had the towel wrapped around it, drying the plate he held in his left. “What did he say?”

“Mum, its nothing,” Maedhros said tightly, deciding that this conversation was a mistake.

His mother scowled – the mirror image to his own. As she turned back to the washing-up, she asked, “which friend was it?”

“One of my new ones, Fingon,” he said.

Almost immediately, both Maedhros and his mum jumped at the heavy footsteps coming down the hall, from where emerged his father. Fëanor was burning with a rage that Maedhros rarely saw.

“Say that name again,” his father spat.

Maedhros risked a glance at his mother and was started to see a similar tension straining her face. “Fingon,” he said tentatively, “my new friend.”

Some realisation set into Fëanor and he stormed out without another word. Maedhros looked to his mother for answers but, before he could even open his mouth, she shook her head and quietly dismissed him. Maedhros left the kitchen and hurriedly went up to his room. That night, Maedhros was certain that he did not imagine the arguing that occurred downstairs.

* * *

The following day, Maedhros was walking out the door with Maglor – the rest of their brothers already gone ahead to the bus stop – when he heard someone calling his name. He turned back to see his father parading down the hall to them, hands behind his back.

“You go on,” Maedhros said to Maglor, “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“Don’t be too long,” Maglor warned, taking a worried glance at their father before departing. Maedhros watched him walk down the drive before turning to the oncoming storm behind him.

“What is it?” Maedhros asked as Fëanor stopped in front of them. The intensity in his eyes stopped Maedhros from crossing his arms, instead letting them hang limply at his sides. The wrath of his father was not something he wished to experience this early in the morning.

“I won’t keep you long,” his father said, “but this couldn’t wait. Your friend – Fingon. Stay away from him.”

Working hard to stop from glaring, Maedhros said as steadily as he could, “why should I do that? You’ve never even met him – you don’t know him.”

“I know his father,” Fëanor growled, “as fine a bastard as I’ve ever encountered. There’s bad blood in that family – you would be wise to keep away.”

Maedhros frowned. “How do you know Fingon’s father?”

“We worked together for a while. His father – Fingolfin – was a close friend, but he grew jealous of my skill and my craft.” Fëanor’s tone grew vehement. “This one night, Fingolfin had drank too much and begun threatening me … I drew my sword to protect myself and wounded him. The bastard insists it was an attack to this day.”

His father snarled. “Just as I knew his eldest son and daughter, Fingolfin has known you since you were in the cradle till your fifth birthday – so before and after the…” He flinched. “…incident.”

Stunned into silence, Maedhros did not know what to say. It explained Fingolfin’s reaction to him – the son of the man who had apparently put up a sword to him, as well as how the absence of his right hand had been the confirmation. 

“Stay away from him,” his father repeated. “I forbid it.”

Some tether within Maedhros snapped at that. “You forbid it?” he sneered, “what does it matter to you who I hang out with, who I like anyhow.”

“I’m looking out for you, boy.”

“You’re looking out for _yourself_.”

His father’s mouth tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You always do this,” Maedhros snapped, “you want to control my life out of some sick idea that you know what’s best for me. Well, _newsflash, father_ , I’m going to be friends with Fingon – whether you like it or not.”

“No son of mine,” Fëanor breathed, anger barely checked, “will be caught fraternising with a son of Fingolfin.”

“ _Well, it’s a good thing I want to do more than fraternise!_ ” Maedhros roared before he knew what he was saying.

Because Fëanor caught onto the underlying, unspoken words – why the forbidding had provoked such anger. His father’s rage seemed to swell, but Maedhros had already turned away – sauntering off as fast as he could, wiping away tears as he did.

“ _Maedhros!_ ” He heard his father’s bellow, but Maedhros ignored it – ignored everything apart from his own turbulent thoughts. He stomped his way to the bus stop and swore loudly when it was deserted – when he realised he had missed the bus.

It was only an extra twenty minutes of walking, but still enough to sour Maedhros’ already shit day. The walk at least, on a damp Friday morning, helped clean his head and Maedhros regretted shouting earlier. It didn’t matter whatever Fëanor and Fingolfin had done in the past – at least to him. Would Fingon feel differently? Did he care? Did he know?

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that Maedhros barely noticed that he had entered the park.

In fact, he barely noticed when one of the boys passing by him stuck out their leg.

Maedhros had just enough awareness to throw out his forearms to soften his fall and swore as the gravel and mud kissed his skin. He scrambled to get up, but a violent force made contact with his face, sending Maedhros slumping onto the ground, stars spinning.

He thought he recognised the muscular, bearded beast standing over him, laughing before Maedhros fell into blackness.


	10. The Fretting of Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Maedhros vanishes, Fingon attempts to discover what has befallen his [boy]friend.

“So, despite dad completely freaking out,” Aredhel said, “a successful first date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” Fingon said through gritted teeth.

She waved her hand. “Semantics.”

It was Friday morning and Aredhel had insisted to Fingon that he tell her everything that had happened last night on the drive to school. She had scoffed at their choice of film ( _losers_ , she had sneered), outright cackled when Fingon had described resting his head on Maedhros but had grown quieter – contemplative – when he explained their dad’s past.

She had not seemed to mind Fingon’s less-than-enthusiastic responses. 

“Does it really matter?” Aredhel mused. He knew what she meant.

“I don’t know,” Fingon answered honestly, “I mean – not to me anyway, but…” he trailed off, turning sharply into the school gates.

“Go on,” Aredhel pushed.

Fingon parked and turned the key, running a hand through his hair as the car shuddered to a halt. “Will Maedhros feel differently?” he said at last, “that our dads had, what sounded like, a nasty fight?”

“Why should he?” The indifference in her voice steadied him.

“I don’t know,” Fingon answered. “I – I don’t – I mean, why would it?”

Aredhel gave him a smirk that was purely feline. “Well, there you go; stop stressing about it. Ask him directly if its really bothering you.” She winced. “Not that either of you are apparently direct with each other.”

Chuckling, Fingon looked at her sister. Previously, it had always been him looking out for her – always being the one to comfort his little sister and provide emotional – and physical – support when needed. He supposed their roles had just reversed, and that Aredhel was surprisingly good at helping him. Fingon wondered if he had ever given her enough credit.

“Thank you,” he said tenderly and her answering smile was as wide as a watermelon.

“You’re welcome.” Aredhel opened the door and stepped out, only to duck her head back inside. “Hey, there’s a party on at the weekend – I don’t suppose you could drop me off-”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

Their conversation meant that Fingon was only barely on time and spent all the time prior to PE trying to figure out what to say to Maedhros. _Hey, so I know our dads tried to kill each other, but we’re still cool, right?_ seemed like a good place to start.

The only problem was, Fingon realised as he glanced around the changing room ten minutes later, was that Maedhros was not there.

Which was weird, given that, in the month and a half that Fingon had known him, Maedhros had never missed a day, whether because he was sick or “sick” – an ailment that Fingon was known to catch from time to time. In fact, the changing room seemed even more deserted than usual today as Ulfang and his assortment were gone as well. He supposed they were “sick”.

He checked his phone – no notifications. Biting his lip, Fingon punched in _where r u_ to Maedhros and hit send. After a couple hours’ worth of football, he checked again – there was no reply, no indication it had even been seen.

“If you check your phone one more time,” Galadriel said at lunch, “I swear I’m going to chuck it at you.”

“What?” Fingon snapped his attention up. They were sitting under in the shade of a dirtied brick wall, far away from anyone else’s attention. It was peaceful and served as their preferred hangout. Today, Húrin and Huor had joined them, chatting in the background with Glorfindel – or at least, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping on Fingon and Galadriel.

“Every thirty seconds you’re pulling your phone out, scowling, and then putting it away.” She crossed her arms. “Why?”

There was no point lying to her – she could always tell. “I’m worried about Maedhros,” Fingon admitted.

“Did you have a fight?”

“No, but … turns out our dads knew each other and had a falling out – that involved a pointy sword.” He and Galadriel collectively winced. “And now Maedhros hasn’t turned up today.” Fingon threw his arms in the air. “I’m worried.”

Galadriel looked thoughtful, until a sight to her left drew her attention. She nodded towards it. “Have you tried asking him?”

He turned and saw Maglor walking by, laughing with Ecthelion and Finrod. Pushing himself up, Fingon hurried over, shouting, “Maglor!”

Maglor jumped out his skin and spun around. Upon seeing Fingon, he whispered something to Ecthelion and Finrod, who peeled off bearing confused expressions.

“Have you seen Maedhros?” Maglor demanded as Fingon approached, and his heart sank.

“No, that’s what I was going to ask you.”

“Shit,” swore Maglor and then “ _shit_ ” again.

Fighting to keep his dismay from showing, Fingon asked, “when was the last time you saw him?”

“This morning.” Maglor grimaced. “We were going out the door when our dad started shouting at Maedhros for some reason – that was the last I saw him today. I went on ahead and couldn’t get the bus driver to wait. He’s not replied to any of my messages.”

“Me neither.” Fingon rubbed at his brow, suddenly at a loss – then wondered if he was overreacting. “It’s nothing though – surely? I mean – it’s nothing.”

Maglor grimaced. “Message me if you see him.” Then he walked off.

Silently, Fingon withdrew back to the wall and slumped down. Whether by her design or just good luck, all but Galadriel seemed to ignore him. “Well?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. Fingon told himself again and again that it was nothing, Maedhros was probably just skipping classes – in an area with no reception, hence the lack of replies. Fingon was definitely overreacting and they’d all be laughing about it tonight.

And yet…

Fingon stood – his mind made up. “I’m going for a drive.”

Galadriel remained seated. “You have a lesson.”

“And?”

She shook her head and stood up, clasping his arm. “Call me if you need back-up.”

Fingon knew he wouldn’t but he nodded appreciatively all the same.

* * *

_This is a stupid idea._

That was what Fingon told himself as he drove up to Maedhros’ house. Like his dad had speculated, he had never been round, but Maedhros had pointed it out on their run. The pretty flowerbeds sitting by the front window accompanied by the sculptures his mother had made had filled Fingon with envy.

Admittingly, this was not how Fingon had hoped to be introduced to Maedhros’ parents and a cowardly part of him begged to drive away.

But Fingon did precisely the opposite and got out, slamming the car door to boast his self-assurance, and marched up to the door. He knocked once – twice, then waited.

Just as he began to think no-one was home, Fingon heard a stomp on the other side, then the knob turned. 

Standing before him was a tall, hard-faced man whose neatly trimmed hair coiled down to his neck. His cheekbones were sharp, and eyes filled with a fire that put Fingon on high-alert. This was obviously Fëanor – the man who had narrowly missed his father’s heart. Fingon realised how important his first words would be.

“Hey,” Fingon said cheerily.

In hindsight, he could admit was that was probably the wrong thing to say as Fëanor’s mouth upturned in mild disgust, only for the recognition to flicker in.

“Fingolfin’s brat,” Fëanor growled, causing Fingon to shudder. He made to slam the door but Fingon wedged his foot in first.

“Is Maedhros home?” he asked mildly enough. Fëanor’s lifted his left eyebrow in confusion.

“What? Of course not, he’s at school. Now never talk to him again.” Trembling, Fingon moved his foot and the air around him whooshed as the door slammed shut.

Panic now rose rapidly in his chest and Fingon barely made it into his car, where he banged his head onto the steering wheel – the pain being an instant release for his frustration. Steadying his breathing, Fingon again checked his phone. His heart stilled when it showed one new message. 

He almost hurled it across the car when it was not from Maedhros.

Fingon almost left it there, but curiosity got the better and he absent-mindedly opened the text.

He almost fainted when he read it, rage pouring through Fingon like a volcano.

It was from Ulfang.

_the park_

_or your boyfriend gets it_


	11. The Rescue of Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an inexplicably dramatic series of events, Maedhros is now the captive of Ulfang. His only hope of rescue rests on the shoulders of his not-boyfriend.

Maedhros woke with a pounding headache. Groggily, he immediately closed his eyes to try and return to a blissful sleep, only to wonder how odd it was to be sitting down and sleeping. Even more oddly, why did his bed feel like damp, slimy mud? His temple and left cheek felt as if they were on fire and when Maedhros tried to move his hand to touch it, he realized it was stuck.

Not stuck, he realised as his senses returned. Maedhros looked up and was horrified to see his wrist was bound tightly to a tree a few feet above him, the rope so tight that his arm was trapped in a raised position.

Then his memory came flooding in. Missing the bus; walking into the park; being tripped up and a dark, familiar figure cackling. He blinked and mastered his senses.

Looking around, Maedhros assumed he was still in the park, albeit an unfamiliar area compared to the usual, public paths. The muddy slopes around him inclined sharply for about three metres until it levelled out into a wooded area, the trees devoid of all leaves and baring broken branches and shattered bark.

Above him, Maedhros could see that it was to one of these trees that the rope was tied to. Again, he attempted to move his arm but there was no leeway. Gritting his teeth, Maedhros tugged and tugged, but the knot held, coiled around his wrist like a python. And, _just of course_ , he didn’t have a spare hand to untie himself.

Next, he desperately scanned the ditch for any sigh of his phone, but to no prevail – his backpack and phone were nowhere to be seen. Which meant he had no way of calling for help. Shit – how long had he even been here?

A sharp sneer snapped Maedhros’ eyes to the top of the ditch. Five rugged boys stood there, some glaring at him while others were visibly uncomfortable, like this was a joke taken too far. But none of them looked at Maedhros with such triumph, such hatred as Ulfang did.

In the centre of the group, Ulfang was easily the largest and his unshaven lower face complimented the narrowed eyes. Menacingly, he paced down the sides of the gulf, never losing sight of his prisoner. His underlings followed suit until they were all at the bottom, encircling Maedhros. He glowered defiantly.

Ulfang gave no warning as he slapped Maedhros across the face, and then aimed another punch at his stomach. A cry escaped Maedhros, the wind knocked out of him. Cheeks burning, he refused to give Ulfang the satisfaction of seeing his pain and, cautiously edging as far back as he could, Maedhros spat at his face.

Their audience muttered until Ulfang silenced them with a single stare. He slowly wiped the salvia off and grabbed Maedhros by the chin, gripping hard.

“I told you that this wasn’t over,” Ulfang growled, a predator toying with his meal. “And I keep my promises.”

“Cute,” Maedhros breathed, earning a back-handed blow to his right cheek. It stung this time, as if his body were beginning to catch up with all the recent pain. Maedhros dimly wondered how much more he had to endure.

“You and I,” Ulfang went on, “are going to have so much fun.” He released his grip, kicking mud at Maedhros as he stood up. “Especially when your boyfriend turns up.”

The words pummelled into Maedhros. “What?”

Ulfang smiled, a dark, hideous thing. “Oh, you didn’t think I’d waste my time on just you – I’m a practical man. Two dead birds at once.” His hand slid into his pocket and pulled out a phone. Maedhros did his best to turn away as Ulfang snapped a photo of him. “Let’s see if we can get the mighty Fingon here any faster – I’m certain he’ll appreciate any photo of you. Who knows,” a sadistic chuckle, “maybe he’ll prefer you all bloodied up.”

Maedhros snarled – an actual wolf-like snarl. He had no more words to waste on this bastard. But his insides churned, and stomach pooled – did Fingon know he would be walking into a trap?

He breathed – in, and out. In and out. It helped ease the bruises and calmed Maedhros’ thoughts. Fingon would not be stupid enough to play into Ulfang’s hands. The moment he worked out where Maedhros was, Fingon would fetch help – maybe not the police, but in the least his wider set of friends. Maedhros examined the five boys before him. Aside from Ulfang, they all looked like untrained bullies. Only Ulfang, with his muscles rippling against the tight black fabric covering him, would be a serious threat.

One of the boys had scarpered to the top of the hill and surveyed the surroundings.

“Any sign?” Ulfang demanded. The boy shook his head, and his master gave a low laugh. “This place is well hidden,” he explained to Maedhros. “No-one apart from my boys knows where here is – your Fingon will be walking out there for hours until he finds us.” 

“Oh?”

An extremely familiar, warm, confident, and arrogant voice echoed. Maedhros had no doubt he had been waiting for a dramatic entrance.

Because there, standing on top of the slope where Maedhros was tied again, was Fingon. His hair wasn’t its usual immaculate set of braids and instead a sea of the silky substance swam in the breeze. The gold in the few plaits caught the sunlight and shone like the only stars in the night sky and while Fingon’s face looked relaxed, eager even – his eyes seared with rage upon seeing Maedhros, beaten and helpless.

There was also a bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and aimed at Ulfang’s chest. The bastard took a step back.

Despite of their immediate crisis, despite his wounds, despite the threat surrounding them – Maedhros couldn’t help himself.

“Why the fuck do you have a bow?!” he yelled up.

“It was in my car!” Fingon shouted back.

“ _Why the fuck do you have a bloody bow in your car?!_ ”

“For situations like this, dummy!” Fingon stepped forwards, allowing his eyes to dart to the other boys – naked terror on their faces. He jerked his head. “Piss off, the lot of you.”

The raw command in his voice left Maedhros both impressed and horny as Ulfang’s underlings fled. A couple gave him an apologetic, guilty look but it was clear that their fear of Fingon outweighed their fear of their leader. They scampered out of the ditch and ran into the trees.

Leaving a tense stand-off between Fingon and Ulfang, with Maedhros in the middle.

Ulfang dared to advance. “Glad to see you’ve come out to play.”

Fingon tightened his grip on the drawstring, face impassive. “Who says I’m playing.”

Raising his hands, Ulfang crooned. “What are you going to do – put an arrow in my chest?” He laughed and booted more slop over Maedhros, who winced as the iciness gnawed at his legs. “We both know you’re not going to use that thing.”

He cracked his knuckles and rotated his neck. “Come down here and fight me like a man – winner gets possession of your boyfriend.”

Maedhros’ face burned at that declaration and he stared at Fingon. To his horror, Fingon lowered his bow.

“You’re right,” he conceded, “as much as I would love to – I can’t shoot you.” But then he smirked, filling Maedhros’ heart with lightness. “So, it’s a good thing I didn’t come alone.”

As if he were expecting some secret force of ninjas to ambush him, Ulfang whipped his head around the ditch, fists raised for a fight. But Fingon only whistled – a high, pitched call that resonated across the trees.

Barking answered it.

Maedhros laughed his disbelief as he heard the poised strides of a greyhound and saw brown fur emerge at Fingon’s side. Bright, caramel eyes lit up the shaggy hair like spotlights, yet it was the whiteness of his teeth against the drabness of the woods that send that pulse of fear through Ulfang.

There was no debate in that coward’s face, as Ron the mighty hound hurtled down the slopes of the ditch, roaring his challenge at Ulfang. Eyes wide and wild, Ulfang turned and ran, clambering up the sides as a rat would, and bolted into the trees, all with Ron nipping at his heel. Ulfang’s cries of fright was music to Maedhros’ ears.

Fingon gracefully slid down the slopes and wasted no time in drawing an arrow, cutting through the rope. Moaning, Maedhros lowered his stiff arm, cradling it, but he only had eyes at that point for Fingon – the idiot who had come armed only with a bow and the family dog to rescue him.

Swearing softly, Fingon examined Maedhros’ bruises. “That bastard…” he muttered, but the worry faded. “Nothing serious – it looks worse than it is. The shithead had that much sense at least.” Fingon lowered his voice to a rumble. “I swear, next time I see him – I’m going to rip his dick off and shove it down his fucking throat.”

Maedhros gave a hollow, raspy giggle. Fingon’s eyes softened. “I’m completely serious.” He cupped Maedhros’ face. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Did you really waste time just so you could go home and bring the dog along?” Maedhros grouched.

Fingon bit his lip. “Maybe.”

“ _The dog_. Not your wide and loyal friend group, all of whom would have your back in a fight without question – _but the dog_.”

“Yep.”

“Drama queen.”

“Always.”

Maedhros laughed softly and gazed into Fingon’s eyes. A beat of silence passed.

“Fingon,” Maedhros whispered. Maybe it was the pain or some lingering numbness, but he knew it was now or never. “I think I, like, _like_ you – like, I’m crushing on you.”

Fingon’s eyes went wide, like he was going into shock. Panicking, Maedhros babbled, “Sorry! Please, don’t let things be weird – or – crap – or…”

His words were cut off as Fingon pressed his lips onto Maedhros’.

The kiss was soft and tender and nowhere near enough. Breathing in his scent, Maedhros gripped the back of Fingon’s neck – pulling him closer until they were practically lying on top of each other. Fingon broke it off and smiled, broadly and full of life.

“You’re such a dummy,” he whispered and eased Maedhros to his feet. “Now let’s get you out of here.” Using Fingon as a crutch, Maedhros hobbled out of the ditch and was greeted by the barking of Ron, waiting for them by the trees. Maedhros winced slightly at the spots of red on Ron’s teeth.

“Ron was a greyhound racer,” Fingon laughed, “that sod never stood a chance in a straight race.” Ron trotted up and licked Maedhros’ right arm and he too laughed.

Grinning like fools, Maedhros leaned into Fingon’s warmth as Ron lead the way through the trees and into the waiting world. They had some things to settle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I hope anyone who's read this far enjoyed the climax to this fic - this was certainly my favorite chapter to write:) Just the epilogue to go now to wrap up a couple loose ends.


	12. The Epilogue of Maedhros and Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concluding chapter featuring Maedhros doing his big reveal.

Fingon tried not to look like he was thinking too much on how he should be standing. Leaning against the wall as he normally would was a big no-no, but standing straight at attention made him look like he was trying too hard.

But considering where it was, he was currently standing, Fingon supposed looking like he was trying too hard was probably a good thing.

It had been two hours since he had charged into the park to rescue Maedhros, where he had set Ron loose on Ulfang, and where he and Maedhros had kissed. The mere thought of it sent a jolt of pleasure through Fingon. And now, two hours later, he was being introduced to his boyfriend’s parents.

They were all in Maedhros’ family sitting room, Fëanor and Nerdanel on the red velvet sofa while Maglor and Caranthir leaned against the adjacent wall. Maedhros stood in the middle, explaining what had happened, while Fingon stood awkwardly behind him. Fëanor was looking decidedly less murderous than he had earlier while Nerdanel looked at Fingon with gratitude and affection.

After Maedhros had finished, Nerdanel had clamped her fist. “I’ll contact the school and make sure this Ulfang gets the punishment he deserves.”

“Best not,” Maedhros said, “given that Fingon threatened him with a bow and arrow.”

“He kidnapped you first,” Fingon put in.

“And then you set a dog on him.”

“I can’t be held responsible for Ron’s actions!”

“You literally can.”

“Boys,” rumbled Fëanor, cutting off their bickering and Fingon instantly straightened. Maedhros’ father met his eyes. “Fingon – it seems that I misjudged you.”

Smiling, Maedhros pushed a bemused Fingon forwards.

“You saved my son,” Fëanor said, “and for that I am eternally grateful.” Then he smiled – _actually smiled_. “You are welcome in my household any time, though, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, that if you hurt Maedhros I will hunt you down and skin you alive.”

Fingon matched his boyfriend’s father’s smile. “Thank you, sir.” He bit his lip, then decided to hell with caution. “If I might make one teeny, tiny request, sir?”

Fëanor’s brows flicked up. “Oh?”

Drawing out a pen and pencil, Fingon scribbled down a series of numbers. “This is my father’s telephone number,” he said hesitantly, “if you ever, you know, wanted to try and patch things up, just give him a call.”

Fëanor stared at the paper for a moment, his mouth tight. But then he reached out and took it. “Perhaps it is time,” he muttered.

Shocked, Nerdanel whipped her head to her husband and then back to Fingon. “I can see why my son likes you.”

Fingon winked and slid his hand into Maedhros’, who kissed his cheek. “Ew,” Maglor murmured.

* * *

“I’ve rescued my friend armed with naught but a bow and a dog, made said friend my boyfriend, and healed a decade-old family rift,” Fingon prattled off, “I have had a remarkably busy day.”

“And?” Maedhros replied from the passenger seat. After a hectic day, Fingon had persuaded Maedhros to join him for a romantic drive in the sunset, which, Fingon thought as he observed the luminous orange-yellow circle disappearing behind a darkened country road, was beautiful.

“ _And_ I think it entitles me to once again ask what happened to your absent hand,” Fingon said, changing up to a higher gear. The road was mostly clear, so there was no harm in going a little bit faster. He turned towards Maedhros. “Pretty please.”

His boyfriend’s eyes widened as they darted up. “ _Watch the road!_ ”

Fingon glanced back and yanked on the steering wheel – narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck. The horn screeched as it passed. “No harm done.”

“Fucking hell, Fingon, do you even have a driving license?”

“My dear Maedhros,” Fingon purred, “would I, a law-abiding student, dare to drive without a license?”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “Yes, and don’t even try to deny it.” Fingon squawked in outrage.

“At least I can drive,” Fingon said smugly, causing Maedhros glared at him. “Or do you want me to teach you?”

“No.”

“We could have a lot of fun in this car – and I’m not talking about just driving a car.”

“Pig.” But Maedhros was biting back a grin. “I don’t want to wreck this beautiful car – except maybe to give it a fresh paint coat – red this time.”

“What’s wrong with blue?”

Fingon was surprised at how long it took Maedhros to answer that one. “Nothing,” he said at last. “I think I’ve come to like blue.”

Sighing, Maedhros then said, “How about a question for a question?”

Raising an eyebrow, Fingon said “Shoot.”

“How did you know where Ulfang’s hiding place was? He said only his boys knew where it was.”

Fingon smirked. “I kidnapped one of his henchmen and tortured them for information.”

“Really?”

“I asked your brother, Caranthir.”

Upon receiving the text, Fingon had panicked for a good few minutes before deciding what to do. As he hadn’t a clue as to where Ulfang hung out, he had scrambled his memory for someone who did. Then Fingon had remembered Maedhros moaning about Caranthir buying vapes off Ulfang. Two polite messages later, and Fingon had the location.

Maedhros looked shocked at that information. “Seriously? Caranthir actually helped you?”

“I’ve learned recently that you should never underestimate your younger brothers and sisters,” Fingon said, “they may be scrawny, annoying little assholes, but they want to protect you just as much as we do them.”

Smiling, Maedhros said, “When did you get so philosophical?”

“Since always,” Fingon shot back, “now, my turn – where did your right hand go?”

Maedhros twirled his hair and opened his mouth. Fingon braced himself for whatever trauma or horrific thing might be coming –

“Maglor accidentally cut if off when we were three years old. Dad made lots of live swords, so we snuck into his shed, found them and played with them in secret until Maglor got a bit excited and lobbed my hand off.”

Mouth agape, Fingon stared at Maedhros, who was chuckling. “That’s _it_?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve been imagining all these terrible, awful, traumatic scenarios – mentally preparing myself to help you deal with it, to make you as comfortable as possible to tell me … and its just – boring.”

“Yep.”

“I’m almost disappointed,” Fingon muttered.

“Yeah, people do tend to be when I tell them,” Maedhros admitted dryly, “so sometimes I spin a tale like I was chained to a rock and had to cut it off to escape.”

“Stick with that,” Fingon smirked, “sounds a lot better.”

“Prick.”

“Always.”

Maedhros started laughing and Fingon revelled in the glorious sound of it. It was better than any music and Fingon whooped as he drove them into the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A massive thank you to everyone who's read, commented and left kudos on this fic! I've enjoyed writing this and I hope you somewhat enjoyed reading it. I'll catch you in the next one:)


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